Every Day: Wake Up, Burn
by Talutha
Summary: One shot fics under 1000, mostly written for LJ's fffriday. Ratings vary.
1. Counting The Days

**Title**: _**Counting the Days**_  
**Characters****: Mostly Mal, snippets of the crew, Inara by implication.  
****Pairing**: Mal/Inara

**Words: 513  
****Rating**: M for sexual imagery

**Written for livejournal's ffFriday.**

She'd been gone for thirty two days, and Mal would not go into her shuttle. He would write an advertisement for the Cortex – reasonable rates, privacy, couples welcomed – and he would leave it lie. Just to think about, mull over. Passengers usually proved to be more trouble than they were worth anyway. Didn't need more trouble right about now.

She'd been gone for sixteen days, and Mal would not think about her. He would deliberately fantasise about other women, just to spite her. He thought for a while about broad hipped women, with huge, veined breasts that spilled out of his hands, and wide pale arses he could bury himself in. He thought for a while about slender, clever women, with wide mouths and long legs, but they began to wear Nandi's face and scent, and so he stopped thinking about the slender ones. He'd think about easy women, with hard faces and businesslike fingers, and laughing women with whisky perfume who would disappear come morning. Once or twice he even thought about sunshine girls who'd crawl into his bunk and just hold him, soft and warm, like his mother might, and on those nights he'd cry out, but not with release.

She'd been gone for ten days, and Mal would smile at his crew and laugh at their jokes. He would seek them out, watch them talk, inhale their scents and memorise their motions. Zoe, all length and silences, moved sparingly, like greased ball bearings, but her fingers, just the top two joints, began to flutter when Wash was with her. Mal had never noticed that before, that tiny fidget. Zoe was not a fidgety woman and that tiny motion nearly capsized him for a while. Wash was one big fidget, and Mal figured he was catching. Jayne was smooth and heavy to the Shepherd's slightly shakier strength, but neither was less practiced than the other. Kaylee's movements were loose and easy, matching River's coltish grace as the two sprinted up the stairs in the cargo bay, making metallic thunder and laughing like lightning. Simon was spare and sure and surgical, even in his most casual of gestures. Mal tried not to move too much.

She'd been gone for forty six days, and Mal would flinch if he heard her talking to Kaylee and Book over the Cortex. They were careful to keep their voices down when they heard his distinctive gait along the passage, his fingers shushing over the bulkheads and drumming over the access panels. She had asked them not to tell him she called. They never asked why, because they already knew.

She'd been gone for two days, and Mal would look for signs of her all around the ship. Kaylee was packing the last of her things into boxes. The mechanic kept a length of creamy satin for herself. It had been left, hanging dustily from the shuttle's ceiling. Mal found a single long black hair on it as he was helping Kaylee fold it.

He had not known he was looking for it until he found it.


	2. Dogs

**Title: Dogs ****  
****Characters: Mal's words, the rest are OCs**  
**Pairing: None**  
**Rating: M**

**Words: 995****  
****Challenge: #118: Bodies.**

**Inspired by ****browncoat2x2****, who wanted Mal's mother.**

Wild dogs had been worrying the stock again, slinking even into the calf yards and across the roof of the hen house. Young Emmy Beckon had shot one on Tuesday that had tried for her fat baby, lamb like in the dust as his mother had been taking in the washing. Since Jackson left for the War, she had been carrying his old revolver in her pinny pocket, and plugged that dog right between the ears cool as you please. It was only later that Angelica Reynolds had held her as she quaked for fear of what might have happened.

Damn dogs were getting too bold. Forgetting their place.

Angelica sat still as the stars on the porch of the old 'stead, rifle flat across her knees and cool in her hands. The letter that had come that day was smoothed across her lap under the notched wooden stock, crinkled from travel and re-folding. The after-sunset chill made her bones ache a little, and she had to squint to see through the dark. It was really only a matter of pride that she was sitting up like this, seeing as how there were ten other rifles faster than hers out there in the darkness as well. None of her boys would dare gainsay her when she declared that she would wait up for the dogs as well, although Henry gave her a significant glance and suggested she take position on the porch. Where the rocking chair was. That was the shape of things now. All the young ones were gone, leaving only the women and the silverhairs behind, shooting dogs instead of purplebellies, sitting in rocking chairs instead of trenches.

The front door opened behind her, and Emmy slipped out to sit on the boards beside the chair, revolver glinting in her hand. The young woman had moved to the main house for a while until the dogs could be taken care of, and Angelica was glad of the company. Her fingers were stiff from years of work and injury, and Emmy's brown bread was something to wake up to in the mornings. A body could get used to having intimate company again, now that Mal was gone to war. She wanted to read the letter again, but there wasn't enough light cast. She didn't really need light to read the stark tidings though. Mal had never minced his words.

A quick movement out by one of the buildings caught her eye but it was just Pete checking on the house dogs, tied in the small barn to prevent them getting shot by mistake. The old woman squinted out into the darkness, following his course, listening to him giving low endearments to the hounds.

"You ought to be in with your young'un, Emmy," Angelica said quietly.

"Cain't," the young woman replied. "Gotta wait up fer the dogs with ya. Cain't sleep tonight. Too riled up after hearing 'bout Jackson moving on to Hera." Angelica nodded and reached down to squeeze the girl's shoulder. The bitter cellulose paper in her lap made a smooth rustling sound as she did so. Emmy looked over at it, then up at the older woman's face.

"Reuben brung the mail this evenin' from town, Emmy," Angelica said quietly. She felt the girl tense under her palm, and she squeezed again. "Brung a letter from Mal. Reckon you might need to read it." She slid it out from under her rifle and let Emmy take it from her hand. "Go on inside now, girl."

Angelica felt Emmy's fingers shaking as she fumbled the letter, rose and took two slow steps toward the door. She heard the girl pause. "I'll be right out here, just me and these gorram dogs," Angelica reassured her. She heard the door open and close behind her.

After a silent minute, she heard an agonized moan from inside, and sparse rifle fire from the western outbuildings. A shout went up and a dark shape, running long and low to the ground left the shadows and blundered across the yard in front of her. Swift as she had when she was young, Angelica raised the rifle to her shoulder and squeezed off a shot. She was rewarded by a yelp and a skidding sound as the dog hit the dirt. She hit the porch light and went down the steps to finish the job.

It was young, barely out of puppyhood, and she had shot it in the hind leg. It jerked and quivered, trying to run, and bared its teeth at her where she stood watching it. The porchlight made weird shadows across its hide. She heard Emmy crying out her denial in wavering tones from inside the house, and the baby's reedy protest to being wakened. The dog yelped and whined again, dragging itself across the dirt. Another rifle shot, closer this time.

_"Dear Ma, This might be the last time I write for a while. I'm on Hera, place called Serenity Valley. Hell of a name for this place. Alliance forces are killing us like dogs and treating the bodies that way too. Bodies pile up around us and we gotta use them as shelter. Yesterday I came face to face with Jackson Beckon, as a bunch of us got pinned down on the field. He was dead, been dead for a few days I think. Make sure you tell Emmy. Also tell Henry that I think I saw his boy Nate in there as well. Never thought Jackson would save me from anything, but damned if he didn't save me and mine from some heavy artillery racket for most of the day. Tell Emmy he looked pretty to the end. Better she thinks that. Nothing much is pretty about dead bodies…"_

No, Mal never minced words.

"Angelica, you okay?" Henry came toward her out of the gloom.

"Just fine, Henry," she replied. She raised her rifle once more and shot the dog between the eyes.


	3. Your Loving Son

**Title****: _Your Loving Son_  
****Characters**: Jayne, Book, snippets of River  
**Pairing**: None

**Words: 719  
****Rating**: G

**Challenge: Letters**

**Written for livejournal's ff-Friday.**

Dear Son,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am sending you another hat as you told me you lost the last one in a fight. Try to take care of this one.

Everyone here is well, and Matty's cough disappeared with the warmer weather. Harvest is coming along and Heck Jackson has loaned us his harvester so we will get it all finished on time this year.

I am thinking of you.

Your loving mother.

Jayne's new hat is red with two yellow tassels and some sort of fluffy brim. From the expression on his face, it may be too much even for his supremely self-confident head to bear. River, on the other hand, is entranced by it and when he gives it to her she wears it all day.

Book blinks at the sight of the thing crouched on her head, and the wide grin beneath the fluffy brim, and shakes his head. He is, however, impressed that he has finally seen the hat that is too ugly for Jayne to wear.

"That's an interesting headpiece you got sent this time, Jayne", he remarks to his companion as the two of them prepare for three sets each at around sixty kilos. Nothing too strenuous today, mostly just action to fill the spaces between sentences as they talk.

Jayne shrugs. "My maw always sends 'em. I prob'ly got an even dozen by now." He settles on the bench and does not even grunt as he lifts the barbell above his head. "Guess she reckons it gets pretty cold out here." Book is stung by the tiniest inflection of longing that Jayne has tried to bury under casual indifference. The man is not a gifted actor.

Book is silent as Jayne completes his set, and reaches out to help set the weight back in the bracket. Jayne's boots make abrasive noises as he stands up and makes way for the Shepherd.

"And what do you send your mother in return?" Book asks as he trades places with the mercenary. Jayne shrugs.

"Credits when I can spare 'em. I'd WAVe, but there ain't but two Cortex connections within distance of the homestead, and maw ain't never taken too much to that sort of thing anyways."

Book edges the weight into his grip and is surprised by how easy it is to lift. He must be getting some extra benefit from these sessions with Jayne.

"No letters home?" he asks.

Jayne shrugs. "Nope. I'm not much for expressin' and all that. I reckon as long as the parcels don't get returned, and the credits keep comin' she'll know I'm okay."

Book contemplates this. He can feel the muscles in his chest contracting and expanding. The sheer physicality of the exercise relaxes him.

"I send letters back to the Abbey regularly," Book says, glancing up at Jayne, who towers over him. "I find that the act of writing the letter helps me to feel connected to my brethren, even though I know they may not all read it. It feels as if I am there relating the words myself."

"Yup," Jayne says absently, "that sounds real comfortin'."

Book completes his set and stands up. One muscle in his back protests a little, and he thinks he should probably warm up a little next time.

He picks up his towel.

"Goin' already? We got another two sets to do, Preacher." Jayne raises his eyebrows. Book shakes his head.

"We're going to go and write a letter to your mother, son."

Jayne's mouth drops open and he crosses his arms across his chest. "Now, preacher –"

Book will have none of it.

"Now Jayne," he shushes, "the woman is your mother. She deserves a word or two, don't you think?"

Jayne cannot think of a reply.

When the Shepherd thrusts a pencil into his hand, it feels small and awkward, and he is thankful that the other man does not watch as he forms his letters.

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the hats, they are all real nice. I gave the red one to a girl on the ship. She is a moon brain and her head needs all the warming it can get.

I am well. I hope this letter finds you well as well.

Your loving son

Jayne Cobb


	4. One Hundred Hiding Places

**Title: One Hundred Hiding Places  
Characters: Zoe, Kaylee, Inara, River, Mal, Serenity  
Pairing: None  
Rating: G  
Challenge: #115: Fireflies  
Written for livejournal's ffFriday. **

They sit in a knot at the heart of the ship, all four of them. They gather around the scarred table and talk about the captain, the ship, the captain, same thing, four fragile cups in eight hands, four quiet voices lit by a single late night candle reaching a single conclusion.

The thing about Fireflies is this: they have all those troublesome nooks and hiding places.

Zoe figures she knows about most of the hiding places, having been on board the longest. She's seen some pretty tough times between the catwalks and the bridge, and knows that hiding places are just a part of the design.

Kaylee reckons the first mate is probably right about that, but as ship's mechanic she is often privy to some chinks and nooks that the others don't get to see. She's filled them with her loving care as much as she can, anything to keep this Firefly flying.

Inara, perceptive as always, knows full well that there are pieces of the ship that she will never get to see, and some that she has seen and wishes that she hadn't. She fills a teacup for each of her companions and wonders if she can feel secure in this ship, knowing as she does about all the parts that have fallen away over the years.

River sees the parts that have fallen away as well as the hiding spaces. A ship like this one can have one hundred hiding places found, and still have one more that no one ever gets to see. She knows, more than the others, that it is often best to leave well enough alone.

Mal, shadowed, an unexpected arrival paused in the doorway, listens to them talking, quietly and over tea as they sometimes do, swapping womanly stories and talking about man problems. He smiles. There is light reflecting off them like the steam from their tea, curling through the ship and warming its every extremity. He knows that sometimes the thing that keeps a Firefly afloat is the warm air that lingers in one hundred nooks and hiding places, and the eight hands holding tea in its heart.


	5. Simplify Me When I'm Dead

**Title: Simplify Me When I'm Dead****  
****Characters: Mal**  
**Pairing: None**  
**Rating: M**

**Words: 495****  
****Challenge: #118: Bodies.**

**Written for livejournal's ffFriday.**

**Simplify Me When I'm Dead**

(excerpt)

Remember me when I am dead  
and simplify me when I'm dead.

As the processes of earth  
strip off the colour of the skin:  
take the brown hair and blue eye

and leave me simpler than at birth,   
when hairless I came howling in  
as the moon entered the cold sky.

Keith Douglas

The pounding had stopped hours ago, but he hadn't heard it anyway.

When he had signed on, proudly marched away from Shadow with his mother's grief fresh on his cheeks and his hard, young man's voice ringing out in the sunshine, he had expected action and excitement. He had been promised a chance to make a difference and a hard fight. He had expected – wanted – anticipated like a longing – adventure above all else, more adventure than could be found in a branding yard, or the haystack of some father's barn. He had wanted something finer, something more complex than the day to day creeping from bed to work to bed and back again, something more than callouses and the easy laughter of the ranch hands. His hands sang for it, his whole physical being ached for change.

Now his whole being simply ached, and things just got real simple again; a latent calm like clouds drifted across his soul.

There was a comfort that came from knowing Death would bring oblivion.

He knew that eventually the wound in his gut would get septic, and his blood would turn to poison in his veins. His limbs would stiffen, his skin would get ruddy and his unwitting screams would be unheard above the pounding of the artillery. Eventually he would lose consciousness and that would be that. He would either sink into the mud before his breath stopped coming, or he would twitch his way toward the Reaper and die slow and easy. For a while, nothing would happen, except maybe the occasional twitch or sound as his flesh relaxed into the process of mortification, as all the pieces and bits of him accepted the inevitable. He would get cold as the blood stopped flowing, skin turn mottled and limbs go stiff. In a while, they would relax again, and he could begin to bloat. He had always wanted to die pretty, and felt somewhat cheated that oblivion had to include bloating and bursting intestines. He disliked the violence of decomposition. He preferred instead to imagine a slow effacing of his whole self, like wind and water wearing at rock until it turned to sand, a simpler, gentler process.

Oh yes, he had forgotten about the shriveling of the eyes. The colour kind of leeched out too, same as the skin. Leave a corpse long enough, everything gets to be a uniform colour. Like rock left to itself for a millennia.

He groaned, fighting waves of pain and nausea that had somehow managed to break through his shock and numb unawareness. Hands plucked at his sleeve.

"Sir…" Alleyne's whisper was rough and moist in his ear. He tried to grunt, and managed to whimper. "Medevac's coming, sir. You don't get to die tonight."

He wept, with not enough moisture in him to form tears, and not enough strength to make a sound or a movment. There was a comfort that came from knowing Death would bring oblivion.


	6. Imperfect Reflection

**Title: Imperfect Reflection  
Characters: River, Simon  
Pairing: None  
Rating: M**

**Words: 516  
Challenge: #126 'Light'**

**In homage to "Sixty Lights" by the brilliant Gail Jones**

A voice in the dark: "River?"

It was an antiseptic whisper. She wanted it, this dry, clean, gentleness, this surcease from the purulence of her own self. This simplicity. This hospital cornering of herself into the folds of some – any – sort of sleep.

Her feet were cold inside her skin. The blood on them was congealing and itching like ants.

The air inside Serenity was completely still. Even the re-cyc system didn't stir it. Outside the ship, the stars hummed and buzzed and struck like insects at the frail protection offered by sheet metal and rivets. River had dreamed that a moth landed on her face and dropped its load of shimmer before flapping away into the dark corners of her room like a white hand, and she had awakened bolt upright with her eyes open.

Again the voice: "River? What's wrong?"

Here is what she had seen earlier: herself, as she truly was. Mirrors lied. Mirrors worked by reflecting light. They only showed what the light told them too, never what was really there. The moth had left her cheek smeared with shine that didn't show up in the dim light offered by the single fizzing bulb in her room. The glass of the mirror was slow and hard and cold and when she looked into it, she was trapped under an ice sheet. All of Serenity was held captive by the shining surface, and all around her moth dust made her eyes sting.

She was wearing one of Simon's old shirts, a creased blue one he had worn to Alys Camberson's seventeenth birthday, and again last Thursday. River had taken it for herself and he hadn't protested. He had given her more needles instead, and she had slept in it.

She was unsatisfied by the mirror. What strange alarum of fate had assigned this mirror to her face? What odd twist of Newtonian physics meant that it was forever stranded in an anachronistic lie? The present was never displayed properly, only imperfectly reflected.

It even reflected her fist as she calmly shattered it into cracks and shards that stuck in her fingers and feet.

She saw only elements, dark in the dim light: the cavernous corners of her room, the seaweed of her hair, the pale sculpted curves of the sheets she had abandoned. The mirror continued its business, bits of sliced River Tam still glanced from its surfaces, compressed, contained, assembled like it was a lens, or a spider's eye. There was a community of Rivers present with her, a crowd of her face and her blood on the floor reflected the light as well. When she turned away, she was conscious of her face turning away a hundred times.

Simon turned over in his bed, his humped form moving slowly like he was underwater.

"River? Are you hurt?"

His tone pricked at her like glass shards and she would always remember the way he said her name, loving, distracted, accusatory, lost.

She felt stranded outside his room.

"I'm fine. I just came to tell you about my mirror, and that I can't sleep," she said quietly, evenly, wishing she could just walk away.


End file.
